destinations (are where we begin again)
by modernlifehistorian
Summary: "There's not the slightest of false pretenses in this moment. It's their time, their reality, the roughness of his scruff beneath her fingers as she kneels on their makeshift bed." [Miracle of Christmas Lyatt one-shot]


The first time he kisses her in the present it's under a bundle of mistletoe their boss and strategically strung above their bed in their government owned missile bunker.

Is it odd to admit that she'll miss thinking ' _what the hell?_ ' anytime she paraphrases their current existence.

"I mean it is custom." As if he needs an excuse to kiss her.

At this point, she imagines oxygen deprivation from kissing him too long wouldn't be the worst way to go.

This first kiss isn't about direction, about leading to something else. It's breathing each other in, taking the time to memorize the feel of this because finally time is on their side. Their lips barely move before they're breaking apart but not without him teasing her bottom lip with his teeth.

"That's the first time we've done that in the present," she observes. "I mean, our present—I mean, 2018." She can't find the words. Even when she finally stumbles upon '2018', it lacks the depth of what she's really trying to explain to him. It's not a stage play for two of the most romanticized bank robbers in history, it's not working undercover in the glitz and glamour of Hollywood, there's not the slightest of false pretenses in this moment. It's their time, their reality, the roughness of his scruff beneath her fingers as she kneels on their makeshift bed.

She can't vocalize it because God knows it wouldn't come out that eloquent, more just a rambling sequence of filler words with sparse confessions mixed in, but the moment he answers:

"Well, it'll be 2019 soon…"

Any lingering need to explain the depth of what she's feeling melts away because it's not that he simply understands, but he takes her sentiment and raises it. The days of flying off to the past are gone, the present is theirs for the taking, but more than that, for the first time since Homeland Security swept her away from the world she knew, the future is theirs as well.

And she'll be damned if she lets it slip away from her this time.

"True," she agrees coyly.

"So maybe we should…"

"Make up for lost time?"

There's the faintest of hesitation, him not wanting to move too fast, her not wanting to assume too much, but the moment their lips collide, this time, there's a supernova in her heart, bursting in the brightest of colors, burning its way through every vessel in her body because _this_ is it.

There's a difference in the way he kisses her, touches her, like he's shed the skin of guilt and it's left him golden, radiating in a renewed hope. No more ex-wives or secret societies or terrorists or time travel. Nothing more than they way his body feels as he pushes hers into the mattress to the symphony of rusty springs a different version of herself would know all too well.

They're not fooling themselves as to where this is headed but, for a second, she's content with the way his mouth feels against hers. Sex is one thing, but this, the agile way his tongue dances with hers, the way his hands feel in her hair, whispers of an intimacy that was lacking even in their night in Hollywood.

But the position they're in has pushed the fabric of her dress up to around her waist and the way she can feel him swelling against her sends sparks to her brain, short-circuiting any thoughts that aren't _him._

She begins to tug at the hem of his shirt until he leans back to finish pulling it off, but the vacancy of him has her yanking him back down as soon as the blue tee is thrown across the room. Her hands eagerly explore the expanse of his broad chest and her nails rake down across his abdomen until she reaches the line of his jeans, dancing along the barrier of denim.

"Mm, whatcha doin' there, ma'am?" He mumbles against her lips.

"Trying to get a soldier undressed," she answers, pulling at his belt. "I figured that was obvious." There's a growl low in his chest before her hands are suddenly pinned above her head. Her eyes scan his, the darkness of his irises sending shivers through her body, but it isn't even a full beat before his hold on her hands softens, his nose running gently across hers.

"You first," he whispers, pressing a gentle kiss to her lips before descending down her body. His hands grab onto the hem of the dress that had found its way up past her hips and she can't help but squirm when his breath fans across her stomach, a small whimper pulling from her throat as his he paints a path of kisses up every inch of her torso until all that's left for her to do is toss off her cardigan and pull the dress over her head.

They're face to face again, but she notices his eyes dancing across the rest of her face. His lips fall to the fading scar across her eyebrow and then to the skin of her cheek that is no longer discolored and finally to the healing cut at the underside of her lip. Whatever he had planned to do next is forgotten when she pulls his face in line with hers, kissing him and kissing him and kissing him because he _can't_ go back there… back to a place where they had almost lost each other because they're _here._ She means what she said in North Korea.

 _I don't care about the past anymore._

It almost felt blasphemous as a historian to say, but they're the exact words she's attempting to brand onto his heart with every pass of her mouth over his.

"You're thinking too much," he huffs against her lips and she pulls back with an exasperated scoff.

"Excuse me, _I'm_ the one thinking too much?"

"Yes," he laughs with another soft kiss. "I can feel you getting tense, and your forehead's getting all crinkly which is usually due to over thinking."

"I think the one overthinking here is you," she parlays, running light fingertips through his hair. "At least that's how I translated the scar kissing."

"No more guilt," he assures her, nuzzling her nose ever so slightly. "This is… about healing. I mean, kisses make everything better, right?" The way he smirks at her… it used to just give her butterflies, but now it sends a fresh spike of heat through her, reminding her the exact position they're in.

"I think I need a little more convincing."

Wyatt chuckles before diving back in, wasting no more time in ridding her of her flimsy beige bra as she finally gets to work on his jeans. Once she gets the belt opened and the damn button-fly undone, he takes it from there, standing from the bed just long enough to shuck off his pants.

"This what you had in mind?" He asks cheekily, gesturing to his gloriously naked body. "You know, an undressed soldier and all."

God, he's going to be the death of her.

And by the way he's eyeing her, he won't be far behind.

"Just get the hell back over here," she commands with a sharp tilt of her head.

"Yes ma'am," he complies eagerly but not before yanking her underwear off and tossing it aside. "Are you still…?"

"I'm covered," she replies before he can even ask. They need no more preamble than that before his lips descend, and he's slowly pushing into her. Her mouth tears from his as a breathy cry tears from her throat and she's arching into him because, God, how does it feel so much more perfect than the first time? If kissing him felt like supernova then this is two stars colliding after orbiting so tightly that they had no other choice but to become one.

" _Fuck_ , Lucy," he groans above her, but before she can answer, he's thrusting back up into her with renewed force. "This is—"

"I know," she interrupts, pushing her hips up to meet his and encouraging a faster pace.

Slow will be for another day, one where there's not months of pining and loss and heartache to make up for, but right now she just needs to be filled with him, in every way she can.

Her legs wind over his hips, craving the release she's been so deprived of, and she feels it building deep within her… until he stops suddenly, leaving her practically growling in protest.

"Um, Lucy, is the bed…" But the thought isn't even finished before he's wrapping both arms beneath her and flipping them onto the single cot as the other slides just far enough away that it would've left Lucy flat on the concrete floor below.

They sit in silence for a moment before bursting into a fit of laughing.

"How the hell were we doing this in this timeline?" He questions after catching his breath as his hands run up the length of her back, enjoying the view from beneath her. "I can't imagine this is the first time we would've had this problem."

"Well maybe we weren't as… active," she posits. "I mean between the kicking ass and saving the world and all."

"I doubt that—" He pushes up into her in one fluid motion. "—would ever be a possibility with us." Her palms land flat on his chest to keep herself from doubling over at the sensation of the new position. "Even between the exhaustion of world saving, I doubt we'd be able to keep our hands off of each other for long, or," he pauses with a smirk. "At least _I_ couldn't."

She hums as her lips fall onto his. "Feeling a little insatiable, sweetheart?" He sits up so she's more straddling his lap than laying over him.

"Oh, we're just getting started, babydoll."

She hums her approval before grinding down onto him, relishing in the way his head falls into her neck at the sensation and pulls her body even tighter into his. Without warning, he's flipping them over and driving into her with renewed force, hitting deeper as his mouth ducks down to find her right breast.

She's fairly certain she meant for the words 'oh shit' to leave her lips but all that hits her ears is a series of incoherent moans and whimpers that definitely aren't Wyatt's as his mouth is currently very occupied. But the feeling of him so completely encompassing her has her on the brink of oblivion so quickly that the second he's kissing her again and reaching down to push her that perfect fraction further, she's lost in the carnal bliss that only comes from Wyatt Logan. How she thought she could ever live without this, without him, is beyond her.

Her senses ground again when his movements begin to lose their grace, his body stuttering as he chases his own climax. She pushes up to her elbows so she can find his lips and musters any strength she has left to clench her muscles around him.

He breaks away with ragged breaths as he releases into her, and they collapse onto the squeaking mattress, slick and sated and flooded with the relief of being together after so long fearing they'd never have this again.

But after her body's cooled, the chill of the bunker sets in again, and she can't help the slight shivers that begin to rake over her skin. His body trembles against hers from muted laughter.

"Cold?"

"A little," she answers, but she isn't prepared for him pulling away from her and standing from the bed, stealing her source of heat. "Well that doesn't help."

"Give me a second, smartass," he chuckles, kissing her chastely. After pulling on his boxers, he rummages through their shared shelves before pulling out a washcloth and snatching up his shirt from where it had been tossed.

"Here," he whispers, placing a lingering kiss to her forehead. "Sit up." She silently complies and follows his lead as he puts the shirt over her head, leaving her to place her arms through the sleeves and let the soft fabric fall over her torso. Once he's satisfied that she's no longer shaking from the cold, he gently guides her legs apart to clean up the remanence of what had spilled from her. It's a moment of domesticity and familiarity that she can't quite comprehend. This is them. In their time. In their room. In their bed. His shirt draped over her body.

It feels brand new yet ancient.

The roaring fire of a newly discovered love; the steady flame of a love that's burned as long as the Sun.

She's seen dozens of timelines, each on different than the last. Every string they pulled altered the reality they would come home to, but this, the way she feels now, sings of certainty, that no matter what, it would always lead them back here.

 _Home._

He tosses the cloth into the laundry basket and reaches around to pull down the covers so they can both slide beneath. His body wraps snuggly around hers as he kisses her slowly, replenishing the warmth she'd lost. "Better?"

"Much," she assures him. "I think we might need to thank Agent Christopher for the mistletoe tomorrow."

"Oh, so you're saying none of this would have happened without the mistletoe, huh," he teases, biting lightly on her lower lip.

"Like you said it's a custom," she quips.

"Well if it's all about the custom, then, how about—" he pauses to punctuate his words with a kiss. "—I make kissing you—" Kiss. "— a custom—" Kiss. "—every day—" Kiss. "—every hour—" Kiss. "—every minute, for—" Kiss. "—As long as you'll have me."

"That's quite a demanding custom," she points out, but the smile pulling at her face isn't doing much to hide her true feelings of the idea of what 'as long as you'll have me' could mean. "You think you're up for the task?"

"I think…every minute might not be enough," he smiles cheekily before kissing her again.

"You, Wyatt Logan, are a complete sap," she laughs, holding his face between her hands. "Just wait til I tell the others."

"Just for you, Lucy Preston," he promises with a look of adoration that almost pushes her to tears. "For you, and no one else. And I assure you that I will deny it to my last breath if you try to go ruin my tough and rugged reputation." She tucks her head into his neck, her body shaking from laughter and the joy of just being with him.

But it doesn't take more than a second for a thought to strike out at fragile fabric of the moment.

 _Please, God, no._ She pleads. _Don't ruin this._

But she can't shake it. How long will the being with him actually last? It's not that she doubts him or this, but his assignment is completed. Like they talked about in the conference room of Mason Industries what seemed like a lifetime ago, he has to go back to Pendleton, pick up another assignment, and leave for who knows how long. And she doubts the Army makes a habit of sending such high ranking operatives to Palo Alto.

The uncertainty of the future that had just minutes ago sounded like a fantastical dream closed in, sparking her claustrophobia to life. It was a rare occurrence that the fears would manifest when it was nothing more than her thoughts confining her, but in this instance it comes with full force.

"Luce," Wyatt calls to her, drawing back just enough to face her. "Talk to me. What's wrong?" Her eyes squeeze shut as she focuses solely on her breathing.

"Lucy…"

Once she feels the walls resend from around her, she peels her eyes open to look up, unsure of whether or not to cast her worries onto him. She knows he must've thought about it, and the last thing she wants to do is hold him back from going back into the world he's dedicated his life to.

"It's nothing," she lies, forcing a smile to her lips. "I—"

"I call bullshit," he interrupts gently. "Tell me what's going on." Stalling just long enough to steel herself up to get the words out, she runs a hand absentmindedly across the scruff on his face up to through his hair.

"It's just… what's gonna happen when we have to leave the bunker? And get back to real life?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean…" She draws in a shaky breath. "How is this going to work? How long will we have before you have to go back to Pendleton, before you have to leave again? I have— _had—_ a life, a career before all of this and I don't know what's going to be left for me if I have to leave the rest of my old life behind to go with you. And I mean do you even _want_ me to—"

"Hey, hey, hey," he hushes her with a firm kiss. "First off, I need you to stop talking nonsense. I'll always want you with me, wherever I go, or wherever you go, it's you and me, okay?" He waits for her to nod in response before continuing. "Good. And second, it looks like I won't be going back to Pendleton. At least not any longer than it takes to pack up the few things I have left in my apartment."

That has her shaking her head in confusion.

"What?" She asks. "What do you mean you're not going back?" He throws a loving smirk her way and pushes a stray piece of hair away from her face.

"Well while you were doing your research in here on Young Hee and her family, I was having a very enlightening conversation with Agent Christopher," he explains. "She informed me that in this timeline of events she and I had had many conversations about what my options would be after all this was over. That I had come to her because the thought of going back to the Army after this didn't sound like a future I wanted anymore. Not when I have someone else to live for." He puts great emphasis on that last part, hoping it'll quell some of the anxiety she felt. "And she and I had come to a conclusion."

"What conclusion would that be?"

"Well if all goes well in the realm of bureaucracy and paperwork, starting tomorrow I'll be reporting specifically to Christopher and her Special Projects division." There's a stirring of hope in her heart at his words, but one too many disappointments has made her cautious of assuming the best.

"Meaning…?"

"Meaning that aside from occasional remote assignments, I will be working and living in San Francisco which is rather close to Palo Alto, or so I've heard." She wants to be thrilled, to jump into his arms until this reality sinks in, but she can't be sure, not yet.

"And you're okay with that?" She asks him, a tightness straining her voice. "I mean, like you said, this was a different you that made this arrangement. I don't want to feel like you have to leave the military or leave San Diego just to be near me, or that you—"

"Jesus, Luce, can you enjoy this for a minute without second guessing everything?" he teases, drawing her closer to him. "I don't feel like I _have_ to do anything. I'm leaving the military because, let's be honest, nothing they throw at me now can compare to time travel and taking down secret societies, and I'm leaving San Diego because I _want_ to be near you, Lucy. Hell, I don't know what I'm going to do having to live in a separate apartment from you, let alone a different region of California. So please just trust me when I say that I'm doing all of this because I can't physically handle the idea of being apart from you anymore than I absolutely have to."

For a moment, she can't find her voice. Maybe she shouldn't be surprised by this declaration, but a part of her still can't believe he's chosen her, and, beyond that, that he's willingly, happily even, altering his life to line it up with hers, so she can continue to pursue the work she loves in the city she loves, and, now, with the man she loves.

"Well, we can't have you trying to blow torch through every door in San Francisco," she says playfully.

"Ah," he scoffs, rolling onto his back and turning his face away in embarrassment. "Rufus told you about that, huh?"

"Mhmm," she answers, maneuvering her body on top of his. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"It's not a time I take any joy in reliving," he tells her, catching her hands in his to lace their fingers together. "I was an insufferable asshole, but I just kept being told from every direction that I should prepare myself for the worst, and I just couldn't…" He trails off before shaking his head free of the memory. "So yeah, if it's okay with you I'd like to be within very, very short walking distance of you from now on." Her chin comes to rest on his chest, reveling in the feel of the beat of his heart.

"Well to save any unsuspecting doors from a good torching, how about I keep you within reaching distance instead?" Now it's his turn to be taken aback by her offer.

"Lucy, I don't want you to feel like—"

"Wyatt Logan, what did you just tell me about second guessing everything?" She admonishes him. "Just say yes." A breath he'd been holding deep in chest is released, and he drags their intertwined hands up to his lips.

"It would be an honor to coexist with you, Dr. Preston."

"Good," she states with a firm nod. "Because you didn't really have a choice in the matter."

"Damn bossy, know-it-all," he growls, pulling her up to cover her mouth with his. His hands snake up the back of hers ( _his_ ) shirt, the silken skin of her back a welcome contrast to the roughness of his hands, as their tongues dance lazily across each other, but when she has to pull away to stifle a yawn, they're both reminded of the dangerous lack of sleep they'd had since Chinatown.

"Should I drag the other bed back over?" He asks, tossing his eyes over to the askew cot.

"I'm good here," she sighs, stretching her body slowly against his. "So long as you are."

"Well you do make one hell of a blanket," he smirks, placing a kiss where is shirt had slipped from her shoulder. "I think this will do nicely for tonight." She hums her approval and snuggles her body closer into his before letting her eyes fall closed.

"Hey," he beckons her with a whisper, his fingers guiding her face to meet his. "I love you."

"I love you, too." She smiles up at him softly. "I was wondering when you were gonna say it again."

"It's not something I ever want you to go without hearing," he tells her. "I should've said it a thousand times by now."

"We have all the time in the world to make up for what should have been," she promises, kissing the worry from his mouth. "But, first, sleep."

"Yes, ma'am."

He tucks the blankets up over her shoulders before his eyes flutter close, yet she remains awake.

Even after 1941, she couldn't fully accept that maybe she could be happy like she knew there was going to be something else to tear them apart.

But here, now, she's graced with a certainty she doesn't believe she's ever felt before.

They might still be in a Cold War missile silo, they might have no real idea what the world outside holds for them, but whatever is waiting for them, it's theirs for the taking.

And in that moment there's an echo in her memory of words so lost in the war they'd be forced through, ones that she had almost lost faith in…

 _The present isn't perfect but it's ours._

They've saved the past, secured a new future, so she's earned the right to think about nothing but the man in front of her, the family outside their door, and let the thought of it, of them, of _home,_ drift her to sleep.

 _Merry Christmas, indeed._

* * *

I've screamed a lot about the two hours of perfection that was the Timeless movie and am currently too sick to do it again on here (stomach viruses are the worst.) but I really wanted to get this out for y'all to read and enjoy before Christmas!

Merry Christmas, my amazing clockblockers!

And don't forget that reviews are the best gifts ;)


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